Getting Personal
by refisher
Summary: Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes. Goat. Platonic.
1. Chapter One

**GETTING PERSONAL**  
By AussieHottieMjM

DISCLAIMER  
I don't own _Profiler _or its characters. I do, however, own this story. So please: Don't steal.

RATING  
This fic is rated T for language, violence, and adult situations.

SYNOPSIS  
Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes.

SETTING  
This fic is set around five years after the final _Profiler _episode.

AUTHOR'S NOTE  
This is my first _Profiler _fic, but it certainly will not be my last. I really do enjoy writing these characters.

x x x

_Ring. Ring. Ring. _John Grant groaned. He rolled over to the other side of his bed and answered the phone. "John," he said groggily.

"It's me."

John sat up. He couldn't believe it. He hadn't heard from this guy in years.

It had been five years since the Violent Crimes Task Force located in Atlanta had disbanded. And now, his former boss Bailey Malone was calling him. _'Why?'_

John cleared his throat. "Bailey... ho... how are you?" John closed his eyes firmly, and opened them again, slowly taking in the sunlight just beginning to peep inside his room and the alarm clock that blinked 6:27 A.M.

Bailey ignored John's question. "How would you feel about restarting the VCTF?"

"As great as that would be," John said, "we don't have a profiler. Thanks, but call back when you do..." He was about to hang up the phone when:

"She's out, John." John froze.

"When did she get out?"

"Two weeks ago. She only had to serve five years, which by God, were we lucky only five."

John breathed hard. _'Rachel's out,' _he praised in his head. "Why didn't you tell me this two weeks ago?"

"I'm sorry John – I should've – but I was helping her set up her things. You know, get reacquainted."

_'Well, I wanted to help,' _he complained to himself in his head. "So... when do I start?"

"Monday. I've already gotten clearance to start it back up. It was hard convincing them, but then I showed them every case we solved front to cover (which took awhile). They caved. Told me that if I had that much persistence, then I'd pick a good group of people. I've got their trust now."

John sighed. He didn't know if he was relieved or not, but he was glad that Rachel was out, and that he didn't have to work with the Atlanta PD anymore. It's just not nearly the same as being an FBI agent. John told the man a good thanks and hung up the phone.

_'Monday is two days away.'_

x x x

"Damn it," John hissed as he picked up the soap bar he had dropped in the shower for the third time in a row.

He placed the bar of soap back on the small soap shelf and turned off the water. _'It's gonna be a long day,' _John predicted. He opened the curtain and wrapped a white towel around his waist as he stepped out.

Monday morning had come so quickly and yet utterly slow. All John wanted to do was see Rachel again. He didn't exactly understand why; but at the same time, he did. It was confusing for John. He hadn't felt this way about anyone... ever.

John put on a pair of black pants over the boxers he had lazily placed on. Then he absentmindedly put on a beater and over that, a white, oxford, buttoned-down shirt. He exited the bathroom and headed for his bedroom, where he put on a pair of socks and fitted his feet into his shoes. He inserted his wallet in his back, right pocket and his keys into his front, left. He put on his watch as he grabbed a tie and headed straight toward the front door of his apartment. He got second thoughts about the tie and tossed it upon the hall tree before exiting his apartment, his nerves starting to get the best of him.

He entered the room of a very familiar building. John never realized how much he missed this place, especially the command center. All of his old friends were seated at their usual spots around the table while other busy little workers scurried around the rest of the building.

x x x

"Late as usual, John," Bailey stated.

"Just felt like keeping that tradition," John quipped. This got a small response from his old friend.

"You guys remember John Grant, don't you?" he asked the other members of the team.

"Oh, you mean the guy that never answered the phone when we called and never came to the little get-togethers we had?" George replied sarcastically. "A little."

The others chuckled. It was then that John noticed that someone wasn't there. There wasn't that annoying yet beautiful little laugh that John loved so much. _'Where is Rachel?' _It bothered him so much, he, then, had to ask. "Where's Rachel?"

"Right behind you," a feminine voice replied. John whirled around to see that gorgeous, red-headed girl he had missed so much. "Hey, John. Long time, no see."

John breathed deep, quickly regaining the composure he had lost when she first spoke.

"Are you jumpy, John?" Rachel asked.

"No," he stated coolly, pretending that she had no effect on him or any power over him.

"Okay," Rachel replied, then walked over and took her usual seat at the right side of Bailey. John followed, sitting next to her.

"So, Bailey, what do we got?" George asked absentmindedly, as if the VCTF had never closed in the first place.

"A murder," he replied.

"Obviously," John scoffed.

"Hal Willis, fifty-four, Caucasian... Math teacher," Bailey continued. "He was on his way home from work when some psycho decapitated him." The team grimaced.

"When and where?"

"Walking home from work yesterday afternoon around three thirty-ish. He lived two blocks from the school."

"I'm never going jogging again," Grace replied, "seriously."

"Dallas, Texas. We'll fly out after lunch. In the meantime, George, I want you to look through all you can on previous murders where the victims were beheaded. The search will change as we get new information." George began searching on his little black laptop. "Grace, help him. Rachel, think up any kind of profile you can off our information. I know it's not much, but at least it's something. John, see me in my office." Bailey got up and left the table, and headed for his office.

"First day and he's already on my case. And did you notice he didn't let us catch up first?" He was talking to no one in particular.

"Actually, he did," Grace said. "But remember? – You were late."

A half-smile formed on John's lips.

x x x

"Sit down, John." He looked at the leather chair in front of him and slowly made his way from the doorway. "What's going on, John?"

"Nothing... Bailey..."

"Come on, and don't get smart with me, John."

"Do you have to say 'John' at the end of everything? I'm the only other person in this room. I think I know who you're talking to."

"Just answer the question."

"I did."

"You abandoned us. We had so many get-togethers and you were never there. Not once. You always let the answering machine take our calls. You never answered your apartment door when we actually came by to see you. You completely ignored us, and never tried to return our attempts to meet."

"Look, I just didn't want to, okay? I was... busy..."

"Busy? Oh please. We'd try to at least get in touch with you every other day. There wasn't much catching up this morning, either, even with Rachel. They were all placing bets on how many days it would be before you showed up, if you would. So don't tell me you were 'busy'."

"I was busy, Bailey! Every day I slaved inside all those books about laws – some of them completely pointless – but I read them anyways."

"Why in the world would you do something like that?"

"For Rachel, damn it!" John lowered the volume in his voice. "For Rachel. I was trying to find a way to get her out. I was looking for any shred of evidence that could've helped, or any loophole I could find and take."

Bailey looked down at his desk. "Well she got out."

"How?"

"Her sentence was only five years."

John sighed. "She shouldn't have served it."

"Yeah and she had a rough time."

"How rough?"

"Well I'm sure it'd help you both if she told you herself. Plus, if she didn't want you to know, I wouldn't get in trouble."

"We done yet?"

"No."

John sighed. "Now what?"

"How've you been, kid?"

John smiled. "Other than the enslavement thing, I'm pretty good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah... a lot of nothing happened. And I never really did anything fun. I pretty much just... read... and read... and... read..."

A small laugh escaped from Bailey's mouth. "Great. I'm glad at least nothing bad happened."

x x x

John walked over to where Rachel was sitting on the plane. "This seat taken?" Rachel opened her eyes.

"No. Go ahead; sit down."

"Thanks." John sat, and turned his body slightly to the right to half-face the woman sharing the pale tan-yellow couch. "So... are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"Oh I don't know..." he trailed. "How about... prison?"

"Oh," she breathed.

"Bailey said you had a rough time. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to talk about it."

"It just... brought back a lot of memories is all."

"Oh... right... don't wanna talk about it. Alright," John began to stand.

"John... I just... don't think now's the time."

"Later then?" John asked, his spirits suddenly uplifted.

"Later..."

x x x

Bright yellow police tape surrounded a fifty foot radius of where the victim was murdered. As Grace looked around for any physical evidence, the other three discussed possibilities.

Rachel began filling them in on her profile. "He's killing men by cutting off their heads. That kind of violence expresses that the murderer hates something about their face. It reminds them of something... something that they hate. It could be their hair, their eyes, their jaw line. Hal Willis was a man of fifty-four, but he looks like he was literally in his seventies. The killer must have known his age, because the file we have says his other three victims were thirty-two, forty-three, and forty-nine. He's staying within about a twenty-year range. He wouldn't have gone from forty-nine to seventy-something. This means the killer knows the victims. And considering how clean he leaves the scene, he's probably done this before."

"Rachel," John began, "how'd you get so damn insightful?"

"There's-"

A call from Bailey's phone interrupted her. "Malone. What? Yeah, I'll be sending two there right away." He looked up at the two and led them back to Grace. "There's been another murder at International and Hebron. That's about a mile up the road. John and Rachel, you'll leave now. Since it's fresh, there could be more of a chance at finding clues. I'll stay here with Grace."

"Thanks for not abandoning me, Bailey," Grace replied.

"You guys with the VCTF?" a man in a black police uniform asked.

"Yes. I'm Agent Grant; this is Agent Burke."

"Officer Sam Henry. 'Bout time you guys got here. The whole town's in a panic."

"Isn't Dallas a city?"

"These murders have been isolated to this specific county of Dallas."

"Carrollton," Rachel said.

"Yes, and it's scaring the bajeebers out of everyone."

"Bajeebers?" John whispered in Rachel's ear. This one got a small laugh from her.

"So what do we have?" Rachel asked.

"African American male – we haven't had enough time to ID him yet. He didn't have his wallet. They never have their wallets. The killer likes making things hard for us. And from what we can tell, I'd say the victim's somewhere in his very late thirties or early forties."

They reached the place where the body laid, a long white sheet covering its entirety.

"Can we take a look?" John asked.

"Knock yourself out," Officer Henry replied.

John reached down and slowly pulled the sheet below the victim's neck. "Oh God..." he trailed. "Oh God," he repeated.

"John, what is it?"

"Nathan..."


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Profiler or any of the characters. I am merely a shameless fangirl who is distraught by the abrupt end of the show, and must naturally continue it through fic. ;)

_Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes._

**Getting Personal**

John broke down right there on the spot. He couldn't believe what had happened to whom he considered one of his best friends. Rachel pulled John into a hug, gently moving her hand up and down his back in comfort. "John, it's okay." John nodded and pulled away. "John," Rachel continued. "I don't mean to offend you, but-"

"How do I know it's him when he has no head?"

"Y...yes..."

"You mean there's more than one pair of that ugly kakhi coat he always wears?" John tried jokingly. He sniffed and wiped another tear from his eye. "I gave him that watch for a going away present - before he left the VCTF. It's one of a kind, custom made. There's no way it couldn't be him."

"Okay. Come on," Rachel told gently. "How about you go sit down, I'll take it from here."

"No... he-"

"John," Bailey hollared, Grace next to him. "So what do we got," he asked as he walked closer.

"What are you guys doing here so soon?" Rachel questioned.

"Let's face it," said Grace. "The killer knows how to clean up a crime scene. We figured it'd be easier coming to a... more fresh..."

"Oh, my God," said Bailey. "Nathan?"

Rachel's face only grew more worried. John broke down again, he couldn't hold it in. Everyone was. Even Bailey had tears running down his cheeks.

x x x

George sat at his computer, devastated and depressed. He had gotten off the phone with Bailey half an hour ago, but the news was so damaging he could not get it out of his head. Nathan is dead. A beloved friend of him, and a former member of the VCTF dead. It was hard to believe. Other agencies had had their men die, but never the VCTF. They were always the ones helping the others in the midst of their losses, but now it was their turn to get hit. And they were hit hard. He was not only a respected colleuge, but a close friend as well.

And George sat their for another hour and a half, until he heard Bailey and the others enter.

"It's not true. Tell me it's not true," George stammared, tears pouring down his face.

"It's true," Bailey replied, voice hoarse.

"No," George said. "NO," he turned and looked at John, repeatedly shaking his head.

John nodded.

"No," George breathed.

Rachel forced herself to look at John, sorrow burned in his eyes. She wished she could just put her arms around him and make everything go away. She was scared for him. She was terrified for him. She was feeling for him. She slipped her arm around his waist as they both stood at the head of the table in the command center. "You okay?"

He shook his head, keeping his eyes to the plain black floor beneath him.

"Need to talk?"

"Later," he answered.

"Right, later..." She hated that things were always "later" when it came to the both of them. She knew it was just as much her as him, but she still hated it.

"If everyone will be seated," Bailey tried. "We... we need to continue as much as possible."

They took their usual seats around the table, George unfolded his laptop. John slouched back in his seat, his head as much against the chair as possible, looking up.

As Bailey began talking, John seemed to lose himself in the grief. He closed his eyes and started thinking about Nathan. He hadn't seen Nathan in almost a decade. He'd missed him, and never realized how much.

It's how it always is for John. The people closest to him leave, one way or another. He was sick and tired of it. He began to close people off lately, especially over the last five years. Doing nothing with the only people he'd ever considered close enough to be family. Hurt and pain had become synonymous with himself. He was so scared of people noticing that he'd wonder sometimes who did.

John's first thought of Nathan wasn't when they met, but when Nathan stuck his neck out for him when the VCTF had a mole.

_"I can handle it," John said, attempting to reassure his best friend. _

"We can handle it," Nathan replied, not backing away.

John felt warmth against his hand, he opened his eyes to find Rachel's hand in his, her's trying to reassure him by squeezing. He squeezed in return as a way of telling her he was fine, but she must be one hell of a Profiler. Because she saw right through it. She only squeezed again. He knew she knew he needed to talk to someone.

He nodded in affirmation. It was weird how well they could read each other sometimes. Rachel never removed her hand from his. Suddenly he felt a little better. It was amazing to him that this girl had such an effect on him. He thought so many times "It's just Rachel", but now he seemed to think "It's Rachel". Sometimes even that she was his Rachel.

"So we've had four decapitations in eight days. A death every other," Bailey spoke loudly, bringing John back to the moment.

"Just when the cops clean the scene - or even discover it - they say another happens," George said, typing God knows what on his computer.

"What are you getting Rachel?"

"I... I don't know. I'll need more time," Rachel said, caught off guard. She had been having a moment all to herself.

"You've got until tomorrow."

x x x

Rachel closed the door behind her as John walked over to her couch. He sat on the leather sofa, his right arm lazily propped on it's. Rachel seated herself next to him, a worried expression across her face. She knew what it was like to lose someone you thought of as your best friend. Even though it was five years ago, Rachel still felt terrible grief when she thought of her deceased brother Danny. She could still remember the excruciating pain within her heart that made her ask herself what was there to truely live for. Even now, five years later, she had trouble answering that same simple question. As she looked into John's eyes, she could see that same pain, even if he wasn't looking into hers. The eyes were the windows of his very soul, and no matter how many times he said "I'm fine", she'd take one look into them and see beyond the words marked meaningless by the feelings that shone through them. John had lost a lot in his life, Rachel knew that, though not really much detail. She knew that losing this man, whom she'd never known but heard plenty about, must be tearing him apart inside.

She wondered if he'd ever finally open up to her; so many times had they fought, and their petty comments had flown back and forth neither of them knowing each other's true feelings. She knew that it was a weak excuse to not share what they were both really feeling. Even as she sat there, her hand in his as he struggled to not break down, all she could think of was that time Danny had died and John had been there for her. Remember his exact words, she leaned toward John enough to put her arms around him, quoting him with a slight change, "When does John get to cry?"

Immediately he broke apart, crying harder that he'd ever cried in his life. He wasn't sure if it was just for Nathan - he wondered if he was crying for all that he'd lost. Rachel simply sat there, offering her shoulder for what must've been hours, because the next thing she knew Bailey had entered her office, asking them to lock up when they were done. He had impecable timing, entering the room during one of the brief periods where John was calm and quiet, simply reveling in the comfort Rachel offered him. Rachel had nodded her head, and Bailey taking one last look at John, turned around and headed out as quietly as possible.

Rachel hadn't gotten a chance yet to talk with him about it, but she knew that first he had to let out all the grief he could. Rachel hugged John tighter, and his reaction was that he put his arms around her and hugged her in turn.

John couldn't even think about how much he wanted Rachel. All that was on his mind was the lives of people he'd loved being taken away. It seemed everyone he ever got close to - or wanted to get close to - left one way or another. It was hard enough that his mom had died a little over fifteen years ago, but it only got worse when his mind rushed foreward to Kate, and then to Rachel, whom he'd thought he'd lost forever. He kept crying, because he knew that if he cried he'd never have to stop and think about anything else going around him. He could wallow in his dismay for as long as possible, stopping every now and then to regain moisture in his throat and eyes, sore from the loss.

He felt her hands slowly moving up and down his back in a comforting gesture. "We should probably get going," Rachel whispered.

"Yeah," John replied. An uncomfortable silence fell in the room. Then: "Do you think you could stay with me? I... I don't want to be left alone tonight..." John trailed.

"Of course," Rachel replied. They slowly got up; John exited the office and headed for his desk to gather the few things he brought with himself to work, and Rachel got hers. After locking up the main entrance doors, John and Rachel headed to the parking garage. Rachel started off towards her car, then remembering she was to go home with John. She quickly turned around, as he was headed in the opposite direction. "Hey John, maybe I should drive..."

"Huh?" John asked softly, lost in thoughts. "Oh, oh yeah, go ahead." John placed the keys in her open hand, and changed his course to the passenger's side of the car.

x x x

Only when John squinted his eyes did he realize he'd cried himself to sleep, forgetting to set his alarm clock. _'10:00am,'_ he read. "Damn it!"

Rachel, still fully dressed, was just as out as he had been. "Rachel," he whispered. "Rach, wake up." He gently shook her. She opened her eyes, and after getting a good look at him, closed them again. "Rachel, it's ten a-m. We're late."

Rachel shot out of bed, not delaying to fizing her hair and makeup in the bathroom John's appartment offered. John walked in sleepily after her, taking out the contacts he had worn the night before and putting in new ones. The others had worn and their time was up.

Neither of them bothered to change into a fresh set of clothes, even though Rachel couldn't've if she had wanted to, and they ran out the door to wok, driving as fast as they could - without breaking the law, of course.

x x x

"We've really gotta get this guy," Bailey said nonchalantly. "We've got practically nothing other than the fact that he's a psychotic son of a bitch – whom I want to kill, by the way. We've got hardly anything to go on."

"No; we have a guy who likes to kill people with a connection to the VCTF," George said as Rachel and John made their way to the open seats. These got odd looks from their co-workers, but nothing more.

"What do you mean, George?" John asked in an attempt to catch himself up.

"Well, Nathan was obviously a former member of the Task Force. But this guy Hal Willis" – George pulled up a picture of the second victim – "was a former member as well. He only worked here for about a month in the security division. He was transferred to Dallas, but he quit and found work as a high school and middle school professor."

"So the connection is us," Rachel surmised aloud.

"So the killer has something against us," Bailey repeated.

"Now," George said. "The first victim we didn't even link to the case until now. Darren Ford, white male, five foot eleven, wife, two boys. The reason we didn't link it is because he didn't take the head – instead he took his left hand. The odd thing was that it wasn't he himself directly linked, but his wife."

"His wife," Rachel echoed. "That explains the taking of the hand."

"Hmm?" John asked, turning his head towards her.

"The other two victims were linked directly to the VCTF. It was their choice, they used their heads; they considered. But Darren Ford was linked through his marriage. So what does the killer do?-He takes his left hand, his proof of marriage that never leaves him. The proof of his connection the VCTF. It was the marriage's fault, so it was the hand he took.

"His proof got him killed," Grace commented.

"Exactly."

"Yeah, but come on, Rach," John started. "You think the killer took off his hand and let him bleed to death? No way! He'd want the killing to go quickly, wouldn't he? In case he got caught...? He was married with two kids; how often do you find hours alone?"

George intervened, "So what do we do?" George asked. "The killer could be anyone from an angry family member of a deceased victim-"

"Could be someone who we put away and was somehow released," Grace interrupted.

"Yeah, or it could be a former member, someone I fired," Bailey said. "Maybe someone I failed to rehire when we reconstituted."

"Great," John said abruptly. "Could be anyone. We've gotten nowhere."

"Come on, John, at least we know the killer has a connection to one of us," Rachel tried.

"Great," he said again. "Now it's personal."

"Why are you always so sarcastic?"

"It's a defense mechanism," he replied coolly with another dose of sarcasm.

Rachel sighed defeated. "Fine. Be an asshole."

"Okay," he smiled brightly.

"Ding, ding, back to your corners. My goodness, you two go through mood swings. John, I swear you can be feisty as hell," Bailey told.

"Shut up," John said dejectedly, without realizing the only thing he'd accomplished was proving Bailey's point.

George added: "Yeah, you can get pretty scary, John. It's like Rosie O'Donnell with PMS." Rachel and Bailey laughed.

"Alright," Grace yelled over all of them. "Sometimes I'm the only sane one... and that's not a good thing," she added.

They cooled off a minute and continued where they left off.

"Okay, fine." John adjusted himself in his seat and motioned that he was now cool as well.

George pulled up even more information. "So based on what we have so far, I'm going to circle back to where we were about ten years ago. I'm going to look at the beginning."

"That's a great place to start, Georgie. They'll have to know a lot about the past to find out things like that."

"Yeah, they're all quite former; from our first year," Grace added.

"So we check all of the people we knew from our first year?" John asked.

"That's the best we've got right now."

"Okay," Rachel chimed in.

"George," Bailey ordered. "Search through everything you can by computer. John, you look by hand. I've got files in my office which you have complete access to. Don't worry, I'll be helping you. Rachel, look over everything you can from the crime scenes, even the photos taken there. I want to know every detail, down to the closest donut store. For all we know, the location could have something to do with it as well. They were all killed in Dallas. Find out what's there. Gracie, I'll get you the three victims' bodies. I want you do go all out. Find out even the day and time of death. Give me everything you can, people."

"Okay," Grace said.

The team dispersed to their tasks.

x x x

"Damn it," George swore. "Yeah, thanks for the call. Yeah, okay... bye." George put the black phone back on the receiver. Then he picked it back up, dialing an extension number. "Bailey, listen. Bad news. There's been another murder."

"Already?" Bailey asked from the other end.

"Yeah. About a block and a half from where the last body was found," George replied.v

"Alright," Bailey hung up, George did the same.

A matter of seconds later, Bailey walked into the command center, followed by Grace and John.

"I've called Rachel. She landed in Dallas about thirty minutes ago, and is heading toward the scene now," Bailey informed.

"What scene?" John asked.

"There has been report of another death only a block and a half from where we found Nathan's body. Grace, you'll be taking the other chopper out there and meet up with Rachel. John, I want you to talk to all your Atlanta PD contacts. Maybe he went there after he worked with us or came from there to work with us. Maybe one of them knows _something_ about this guy."

"You got it."

"George, you keep file searching. If there's something remotely out of sync, I wanna know about it."

"You got it, Bail."

"Why are you all still standing around! MOVE!"

As the team went to their duties, Bailey stood where he had been before. He released a prolonged sigh. "Please, let us catch this guy."

x x x

"Garth Landburg," said a short, stout man that couldn't be taller five foot six. He had thick, round bifocals and the little hair that he had on the sides of his head was brown, and he reminded anyone who glanced at him of a sugar bowl. Despite the lack of hair on his head and the obvious lack of perfect vision he didn't look a day over thirty-seven. "The victim's sixty-three; a widower with two kids both in their thirties.

"Diana Landburg worked with us on a case in our sophomore year," John informed his colleagues. This one got questionable stares. "Couldn't forget a girl like her," John said as his mouth slid into a smile. Rachel took note. It was good to see him smiling already; it was such a change from the previous night.

Grace laughed under her breath at John's comment, but the seriousness of these series of murders had quickly given her a cool, unreadable expression.

The short man continued, "That's the name of his oldest daughter. And, here's something sick for you. The man was castrated."

John winced, and the girls giggled at his reaction. "Yeah, if you had a dick, these kind of cases would get to you, too," he replied. The girls giggles only grew into laughter.

"I hope you realize the seriousness of this case!" snapped the short man.

Rachel and Grace both half regained their composure. Rachel began, "Oh, believe me, we do, Officer Daniels." Officer Daniels eyed her sternly. But as soon as he turned away, Rachel and Grace couldn't contain slight giggles that escaped from their lips.

John was mesmerized by Rachel. She looked so gorgeous, and when she laughed she was only more beautiful in his eyes. He thought of trying to get her out of his head, but he couldn't help it; he felt better just thinking about her. He even thought that any guy who didn't was just crazy. He just wished he had the guts to tell her. Maybe he'd try when this mess was over...

_'Maybe not,'_ John thought as his eyes ran over her again. She is way out of my league, he'd think every time he'd work up any courage to talk to her about the subject of dating.

"Officer Daniels," Grace started. "We'll be flying the body back to my lab in Atlanta. I can study the victim better there." Daniels nodded in affirmation.

"Hey John," Rachel whispered as she brought herself closer to him. "If you had to be castrated or neutered, which would you choose?"

"What kind of a sick question is that!" John exclaimed so loudly that reporters nearby had paused mid-sentence to look at what was going on. Rachel giggled profusely. Then:

"It's a Would You Rather!"

"It's a bad one," he replied. "That's like me asking you if... if-" He paused. "What do you girls love as much as guys love sex?"

"Uh uh! I'm not just going to give away our secret," she said with a mysterious drawl to it.

John half smiled at this. She was not just beautiful, nor just sexy, or smart; she was also the cutest little thing he had ever seen. And it seemed she only grew cuter.

previous next


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Profiler or any of the characters. I am merely a shameless fangirl who is distraught by the abrupt end of the show, and must naturally continue it through fic. ;)

_Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes._

**Getting Personal**

Alright, Gracie, please tell me you've got something," Bailey Malone asked as she walked into the Command Center where he and George Fraley sat.

"Well, as a matter of fact..." A smile spread across her face. "I've found a fingerprint near the victim's wound that didn't belong to a Mr. Garth Landburg. The killer must not have worn gloves while castrating him."v

"You're an angel, Gracie."

"I know."

"George, call John and Rachel in Dallas and tell them to put off talking to the families, that we've got a fingerprint. George nodded and began to dial a phone number. Grace gave George a copy of what she told him was a "very strange-looking" fingerprint. He scanned it into the computer and began to search through the VCTF files, starting from the very beginning.

x x x

"Any good news?" John asked as he and Rachel entered the Command Center three hours later.

"Um... it's not Jack," George replied.

"I figured as much," John retorted. George smiled:

"Just offering some reassurance, John." John returned the smile. "I've searched through almost all four years worth of files, checking for any matches So far-"

"'So far' what?" Rachel asked.

"There's a match," the other four looked up at the screen as George pulled up the information. "Oh no."

"Damien Canarez," Rachel echoed in the same condemning tone as George.

"George, I asked you for good news," John said. George only looked at him. "What do we do now?" John asked.

"We do what I said we'd do years ago," Bailey said. "We'll dedicate all out time into finding Canarez. Our soul purpose is catching him."

"How do you catch a ghost?" Rachel asked.

"With the best damn team this country can offer... and I'm looking at it." John couldn't help but flash a gloating smile. "Alright, George, this is all on you. I need you to have into every government file, or just any file, that has anything on Damien Canarez. It could be an alias, but you've got to try." George nodded. "In the mean time, sorry to do this to you, but could you two fly back to Dallas?" John and Rachel nodded. "Great. Grace, study everything you can about the crime scene here. Study the wounds, their patters... everything." Grace had already started towards the lab. Bailey walked into his office to make a few calls. He needed Darren Ford's body excavated.

x x x

_Knock. Knock. Knock._ A young, average height, average dressed woman with brown hair and eyes answered the door. She found one very attractive man standing next to a woman with red hair, both in suits, and she knew what it'd be about.

"Mrs. Ford?" the man asked. "I'm Agent Grant and this is Agent Burke. We're here to talk to you a little about your husband."

"Actually, my name is Tiffany Wingle. I was Darren's sister before he..." She trailed off. "Now's not a real good time. Perhaps another day?"

"Mrs. Wingle, with all due respect," Agent Burke said, "we really need to talk to you. It could help prevent another death." There was a short pause. "It shouldn't take too long. We only need ten or fifteen minutes, really."

Mrs. Wingle, not sure of turning them away but at the same time unsure if she could talk so soon, let her in. In truth, it had been a month, but it seemed like only yesterday she got the phone call from Denise – Darren's wife – that he had been murdered. She had been at the grocery store getting your basic necessities. She had seen movies and watched shows all about murders and cops and the law and saw everything happen through a looking glass, but when it happened to her and she was the one inside it...

"Have you always lived with your brother?"

"For the past little while, yes. My husband died in a car accident about eight years ago. We had only been married two years. And I didn't have a job to pay for anything, so Darren took me in. He was a sweet guy, always trying to do what he could for others, always sacrificing."

"Where was Darren on the night of September the first, two thousand four?" Agent Grant asked.

"Here," she said, on the verge of a break down she didn't want to let herself have. She took a deep breath, the pain in her chest like knife wounds.

"And do you know how he died?" Agent Burke asked. She shook her head. "I got a call from my boss, one that you probably won't like, but we'd like to have your family's consent for it." She nodded as to urge her along. "We need to excavate Darren's body and perform an autopsy."

She sniffed. "You'll really have to ask Denise about that. It's her decision." She looked at them in the face for the first time. "Will it help you catch this guy?" The both nodded sincerely. "Then it's okay with me."

"Do you know when Denise will be home?" Agent Burke asked.

She sniffed again. "She's been out of town with the kids... Well, you know how it is." The female agent nodded. She did know how it is. "She'll be back in three days I think." She seemed to do the math in her head. "Yes, Saturday morning. That's when she'll be back."

"Thank you for your time." Agents Grant and Burke both shook her hand. The female agent seemed to want to say something else, but didn't. Instead, she turned and followed the man out, who had also been looking at her waiting for her to speak. Mrs. Wingle closed the door.

x x x

"You okay?" John asked, slight concern etched in his face for he'd never let on any emotion he was going through-

"Except anger," Rachel said audibly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

John sighed. "Look, I know I can be a big pain in the ass sometimes," he began. "A lot of the time," he corrected, "but I don't really mean to be. We're friends, right...?"

"Course we're friends," Rachel replied. "That's the problem." John stopped walking.

He turned to face her, his handsome features distored with the look of pure confusion which brought a different attractiveness to his looks. "What do you mean?"

John couldn't believe the incredible emotion she had in her eyes Rachel looked at him. "Just forget it," she said in a tone that proved otherwise.

"I don't want to," he replied with sincerety. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the ring of Rachel's cell phone cut him off.

She cursed mentally. It was Bailey. "Bailey," she answered, her voice breaking. "No, I'm fine," she responed to Bailey. She looked into John's eyes, determined to convince him what she couldn't herself.

John damned the phone - and Bailey - mentally for ruining his oppourunity to explain himself to Rachel. True, it had taken him long enough, - in fact, it was technically Rachel who made the first move - but he had been hurt too many times by those closest to him. He naturally closed off the world and people around him, only letting them see what he'd wanted them to. But it seem Rachel could see the tiniest bit more than he'd wanted which proved to be too much.

Rachel already knew he was attracted to her, and it didn't take a roasted goat to figure it out. Okay, it technically did, but it was John Grant: unpredictable in life but the opposite when it came to women. So then she only had to decipher his feelings, and over the past few days it was especially obvious he took refuge in her.

"John," Rachel said softly after hanging up the phone.

"Hmm?"

"Bailey said we should go ahead and fly back."

"But we only talked to one-"

"He wants us rested for Nathan's funeral tomorrow morning." John nodded hesitantly, slowly.

"Can't we talk first?"

"We'll talk on the plane," she said, walking towards the car.

x x x

_'We'll talk on the plane,'_ John thought. _'Riiiiight.'_ So far, the flight had been accompanied by a long, uncomfortable silence that made John - when he wasn't sleeping - sqeemish, antsy, and... uncomfortable. Every time he'd open his mouth he'd close it. And every time she'd open hers, she'd cough fraudulently while reading for her cup of coffee, now empty though a pot warmed as they sat.

Presently, they even avoided each other's gaze. Rachel opened her mouth again, coughed, and reached for her cup realizing for the third time it was empty. She cleared her throught and made the only conscious motion of the two yet. She moved her hand across the table, delicately resting it upon the case file in an attempt to pull it back towards her. Attempt.

Maybe it was the pestering silence, maybe it was how cute she looked with her coffee cup - maybe, even, how much he wished he was that cup - but John placed his hand on hers, keeping the file and her hand from moving.

"I'm trying to start a conversation with you," he said lightly. "The least you could do is pretend to pay attention."

She felt herself relax immensely and decided to play along. "Well after the first ten minutes of watching your mouth flap soundlessly, you didn't give me much of a reason to try." She smiled, biting her lower lip at the same time and contagiously causing John to smile back. And for another moment there was silence, but not the uncomfortable kind like just before, or the hateful kind. With this silence came a peace that John hadn't felt since Nathan's death and Rachel hadn't felt since before Prison, Marks, and even the death of her little brother Danny. With this silence came an understanding of each other's feelings. And in this silence John's lips met Rachel's over the table, over the file, over their hands, and over the empty coffee cup.

x x x

The peaceful silence lingered for the rest of the flight and part of the drive home, until Rachel tried starting up non-VCTF conversation.

"So have you always lived in Atlanta?"

"No," John replied. "But I've lived here for almost fifteen years. Most I ever lived anywhere."

"Why is that? Because of your parents' jobs?"

"Something like that," he said, a hint of vulnerability breaking through which he hoped she wouldn't notice. But she did. She always did.

"Is it... too private?" she said, her voice monotone yet empathic.

He was about the say "yes," his mechanical response to that question every time it involved his family, but he hesitaded. "Actually, I'd like you to know," he said finally, his expression of deep thought replaced by one of sincerety.

They were only three blocks away from the VCTF where they'd check in and out, then would leave in separate cars to go back to separate houses and be just that: separate. So John pulled the car over and shut off the engine because if he was going to spill his guts like he never had before, he would give her his full attention.

"I lived almost the first fourteen years of my life in Boston, Massachusetts. My mother was the sweetest woman you'd ever meet, and my father was the biggest asshole you'd ever greet. Actually, you've probably heard of him since you used to be a prosecutor in New England. Patrick O'Doyle?" Rachel nodded her head slowly, unsure of whether to speak or not and if so, unsure of when she'd recover from the shock to find the right words.

He continued, "He wasn't a total deadbeat dad, I must admit. Never once hit me - or my mom, Noreen - or give me some unruly punishment like locking me up without food. He was just a bad guy. He didn't teach me the positive life lessons; it was always 'Use the power you hold over others to your personal advantage,' and 'Try your best to get ahead in life, even if it brings out your worst.' If I ever walked in on him while he was doing his so-called business, he'd show me that he had beaten up some poor guy and would imply I was just as weak."

He amazed Rachel by speaking as if he were an outsider looking in, with little sypathy and only hints of sadness here and there.

"A little before my fourteenth birthday, my mom decided she'd had enough. She packed our things right in front of him and dared him to come looking for us. We jumped around from state to state until-" He stopped abruptly. "I think we lived in twelve states before she died. I was seventeen."

"John, I'm so sorry," she offered, placing her hand in his and giving it a light squeeze."

"She's the reason I love the way I look. Not because - I mean, I am just _dead sexy_," he said playfully. His expression softened as he gazed intently into her eyes. "But because every day I look in the mirror and I see her. I see her strenth, her face, and her ocean blue eyes that had this effect of... immediate comfort."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," she said.

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